Laugh Resort Comedy Room turns 20

Yes it does.
And here's a letter I have written to the organisers of a huge night on the 16th of September.
Why?
well, they invited me to help them celebrate.
Unfortunately, I won't make it.

Dear oh dear,

We didn’t know what we were doing, but we did it.

All those names that have gone on to be, well, the same names.

And all those names we have forgotten, yet we still talk about that gig, that night, that bloke, and the women who threw the chair before public indemnity insurance was an issue.

Were they the best years of my life?

No.

But two weeks ago when I caught up with Ray Matsen, now head writer for the ever ebullient Rove, that was all we talked about, the old days.

And we both looked like we’d had a few to talk about.

These days he lives in Melbourne and runs a pack of lean, fast talking, comedy writers.

I live in Albany and write books between beach running and body surfing.

Oh, to make money I catch planes to where it is.

Laugh Resort, 18 years old.

Wow.

I’d love to be there.

Sorry I’m not.

But keep inviting me, because when we all get to 20, I’m coming up for a week.

My love to those who remember me.

To those who don’t, huh, you’re not alone.

Peace, laughs, and longevity

Jon Doust

And

George Gosh

A new blog ... just

This blogger is limping.
He's just returned home to Albany, jewel of the deep southern tip, with a small, irksome virus from Melbourne. He thinks he caught it on a tram.
Here's what happened:
I'm on a tram. Everyone is coughing, sneezing, blowing.
I stand alone, surrounded by humanity, all sizes, all types, all hard up against me, but not really hard, kind of soft but tense.
The tram is full. There is no room left.
It stops. there are three people standing, staring.
One says: Sardine time.
I laugh. I laugh alone.
The three plunge forward into the tram with no room. We all shuffle, ever so slightly, and they fit.
I am amazed. My mouth opens, then closes, because I remember the coughing, the spluttering, the sneezing, the blowing, the sniffing.
Too late, and a tiny virus molecule entered my system.
When home, I recover quickly, being of a resilient, mountain goat breed, and so I go running and surfing.
The very next day I collapse in a mountain goat heap, full of bleat and almost coughing. I don't cough. I recover quick, but every since my lungs have found breathing somewhat changed.
The tram world is not for this goat. He loves a tram, but not every day, not at peak crush and full of sardines.
To all those who embrace the tram world, may your neighbour cough the other way and may your tram be always half full, or empty.